


Do you like romantic comedies?

by esotericvanity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ...as you all would call it, Challenge: One-Night Stand Fanfic, Fluff, M/M, One Night Stands, Romantic Comedy, Sherlock Speaks French, because i speak french, canoodling, i call it subconscious province, stolen title from wattpad hacker, ticklish John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7759531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esotericvanity/pseuds/esotericvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you want to go somewhere?"</p><p>Sherlock stopped, he didn't know why but he began to feel...upset. He quickly shook the feeling off. One couldn’t tell of his internal struggle, he only blinked, so he needn’t worry. But why would he possibly be upset? He was merely catching a quick shag, as was John. They were only upholding false fronts in effort to attract one another and obtain what they wanted.</p><p> The feeling increased for reasons he refused to look into, and so he ignored it.</p><p>"Any place you had in mind?"</p><p>John smirked and continued looking ahead. "Yes, yes I do actually."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you like romantic comedies?

"Ah!" An alerting vowel sounded from the backseat. "Take a left at the prostitute on the corner, yes, right there." The cabbie smirked upon catching sight of his destination. He chuckled lowly and glanced up at his customer through the rearview mirror. His mysterious customer, hunched over and leafing through his wallet, returned his lewd, reflected gaze with a confused one of his own. _"Bon choix. Un restaurant vraiment délicieux. Ainsi que les occupants."_

A smirk, the first expression the drone had affirmed his humanity with since the drive had began. Then a deep, amused laugh. _"Tout à fait vrai._ _Avoir une bonne nuit."_   The British man replied, the farewell flowing native and smooth. An extra twenty dollar bill found its way into his offered palm. Pleasantly surprised, he went to thank his passenger. Only to be met with the sight of his car door slamming closed and the dark silhouette fading from beyond the window. He was a strange one. The driver found himself watching the receding shadow for a bit longer until it disappeared. A newfound smile curving his features, he pocketed the twenty and fondly shook his head before driving off in search of more clients. Despite what some might think, it wasn’t particularly hard to find business at 2 am. Downtown was always alive and kicking.

Handing the maître d his coat and scarf with a polite smile, Sherlock cupped his hands over his mouth and blew. Dear god, his hands were numbing after a mere two minutes of exposure to the cold. He took in his familiar surroundings over the tips of his warming fingers. This club had always been one of his favorites, it wasn't loud and chaotic like others. The clubs _younger people_ attended, with blasting music you couldn't speak over, drinking until they toppled over. Juveniles practically eloping on the dance floor. Oh, no. Aux Trois Mailletz had maintained its class throughout the years, for which Sherlock was exceedingly grateful.

Sticking to the cream walls, and away from the chattering diners, he avoided  the reserved, white-clothed tables, all occupied by people wearing formfitting dresses or suits. It was simply rude to trek through. Nobody wanted to be eye-level with a penis before eating dinner. Well, perhaps some. Sherlock corrected himself when he noticed a young man being groped beneath the concealment of a lace table cloth. Well...it had still maintained most of its class. Quickly averting his eyes before he was caught, he surveyed the area with appraisal, the walls were cream coloured and displayed historic knock-offs of famously known paintings. The occasional pale, marble fountain could be found in one corner or another.

Precisely twelve champagne-colored chandeliers littered the vast expanse of the ceiling, painting the room with a soft yellow glow. Waiters clad in black slacks, tucked, crisp white dress shirts and aprons. Women wore the same, although they were wearing plain black pencil skirts in trade for slacks. All sporting polite smiles, serving platters, and offering refills as they strode from table to table. The order was orgasmic and his inner perfectionist groaned at the sight. But this wasn't his destination.

Making his way towards the shadowed back door, he sharply coughed, causing the burly looking security guard to look up from his clip board. "Mr. Holmes." The security guard nodded in acknowledgement. unclipping the rich coloured rope with a keen clip, allowing Sherlock to enter. Sherlock thanked him and flashed a small grin at him before his face returned flat. Sherlock liked his blasé exterior. Although he couldn't say the same for the way the guard shamelessly ogled his backside whenever Sherlock turned around. Before he turned the doorknob, Sherlock unexpectedly rose his eyes over his shoulder to glare. Enjoying the embarrassed guard quickly turning around to redirect his attention to the impatient dame in front of him. Yes, I _see you._

The lighting was dimmer and there were less tables, allowing an almost arrogant amount of dancing space. Edith Piaf’s sensuous voice caressing his eardrums and tickling his core. Mrs. Hudson, old fashioned as always. People swayed to the every dip and glissando, bodies pressed so closely together Sherlock wondered if they could breathe. Redirecting his attention to the bar, he sauntered over and took a seat on a plush, leather stool, swiveling it to regard the crowd. He glanced back at the bartender before letting his gaze stray back to the crowd in silence. Damn it.

When a few more moments passed, and his itch for a glass between his fingers started to get the better of him,  he went to turn around. Prepared for whatever reaction awaited him. He didn’t care for whatever man your wife decided to let court her. Do your job damn it. "The usual, Mr. Holmes...?"

"Oh, thank god it's you." Sherlock sighed in relief and leaned against he counter, watching the previous bartender scurry away.

He received a light chuckle in response. "Yeah, wish I could say the same. I owe him though." He looked up from the notepad he was scribbling on with a sly grin, the short and often-sharpened-looking pencil going limp between his slim fingers.

“For what? Fucking his wife?”

“Precisely. So, the usual?”

"Yes, please."

As Kevin focused on making his drink, he swiveled his stool around and leaned onto the cool marble bar, eyes scanning the crowd once more. Briefly wondering what Myc would think of his habits. His conversation and his reciprocators. Perhaps he was hoping for too much, all he wished to do at the moment was piss him off until his face matched his hair. Mycroft didn't much care for his methods of indulgence when it didn't involve needles or powder. But he had his ways of ensuring that Sherlock's methods weren't anything less than seemly, more so than usual and much to his annoyance.

Luckily, Mycroft left him relatively alone when he implied to more "posh" methods. He exploited this feat to its fullest capacity. And sure, he generally came here for the atmosphere alone but- "Anyone catch your eye yet?" Kevin piped up from the background and slid a sparkling 1738 and ginger towards him.

Sherlock frowned. "No."

-but he wouldn't mind leaving said atmosphere in exchange for something more satisfying.

"Anyone new?" He asked distractedly as he squeezed the lime above the chilled glass.

Kevin scoffed tiredly. "I'm not a pimp, Sherly. And I don’t keep tabs on everyone who shows up. Unless of course, they’re up in my supposed-pimping _face._ "

"Subconscious province, and do not _call_ me that." He countered the done being with a sniff and held his drink towards him. Three troubling ice-cubes clinking against the glass’s circlet. "I need more ice."

Kevin rolled his eyes and retook the glass, setting it back down with an air of finality. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No you don't." He then reached underneath the bar and came back up with a plastic cup of ice. Sherlock hummed. "That's convenient." Kevin ignored him in favor of leaning onto his inked-forearms, officially resigned and joining him on his search.

"Well," He said as he pushed the ice to Sherlock. "If you're _really_ desperate there's always Sally." He finished with a shrug and pointed his thumb behind him, enjoying the muted horror on Sherlock's face. "You're kidding."

Kevin snorted and let his hand rest on the counter. "Maybe, God knows she's had dreams about you featuring every kink known to man-"

"Alright, that's quite enough." Kevin was interrupted sharply by the voice of a man barely repressing his hysteria.

Kevin laughed and relented. "Fine. Fine." And continued scouting the area.

Suddenly, Kevin smirked and hummed appreciatively. Sherlock hummed back in question as he sipped his now ridiculously iced drink.

"How about him?" Kevin pointed and raised his brows in what one may describe as a "suggestive" fashion, but to Sherlock only caused the man to look even more retarded than usual.

"Him?"

Kevin shrugged and lowered his hand, still smirking and ogling said 'him'. "Yeah, you say it isn't really your area but," Kevin chuckled quietly and looked up. "I've seen you leave with a guy every now and again." Sherlock frowned and glanced down at him.

"Don't act so surprised by the suggestion!" Kevin finished brightly.

 

**12 seconds later.**

 

Sherlock groaned and uncaringly displayed his frustration. Flailing arms and re-crossing legs, the whole shebang. "Fine, but only because you looked as if you were about to come in your pants earlier." He finished desultorily. Kevin grinned in accomplishment. Pointing towards the heedless crowd. "Over there!"

Sherlock nodded with an uncharacteristically shy purse to his lips, grabbing Kevin's arm and snapping it back down when the entirety of the partiers looked over. "Lower your voice!" He hissed before looking in the direction Kevin had pointed in.

And there ‘him’ was. Swaying to the now calm and low chorus of La Vie En Rose, taking diminutive steps from left to right, if only to pass it off as dancing and not attract attention. He looked at other lovers simply breathing each-other in with a quiet sort of longing. Nursing a half full glass of champagne all the while. The dancing skills weren't to die for, but the man himself- as even Sherlock had to admit- was quite a sight. Dressed in a fitting tan dress suit, a soft pink dress shirt, and black tie. All in complementing contrast to each other. Good, he wasn't a complete moron. His hair was a sandy blond, short, and well kept. He seemed to have applied some hair product as well. He _must have_ been waiting for someone.

"Gay." Sherlock noted lowly.

Kevin clicked his tongue beside him. "Obviously."

 

**1minute later.**

"God, look at his _ass_." Kevin inhaled sharply through his teeth as if in pain.

"Kevin, please refrain from having an orgasm on shift, I reckon it would be rather difficult to earn tips with a wet stain on your trousers." Sherlock replied to him dully and kept his interested gaze on the forlorn looking figure.

Kevin cocked his head at him, a sly grin slowly but surely baring his teeth. "Such a good friend, always looking out for me."

Just as Sherlock could retort with one of his affronted or insensitive comments a resonant voice called out. "Kevin!" A voice snapped. "Get your lazy ass over here and stop flirting with customers!"

"I’m not flirting!" He snapped back indignantly. Promptly blowing a kiss at Sherlock over his shoulder as the latter only watched impassively. "Now!" The voice called again.

"Alright, I'm coming." Kevin replied, nettled, and rolled his eyes. Making sure to get a good, thorough once over of 'him' again. Sherlock wanted to choke him with his ponytail. Kevin went to leave, but turned once he reached the kitchens back entrance, shouting "If you don't get him I will!" To which Sherlock looked away when 'him' looked over.

 

**5 minutes later.**

 

Deciding he was being astoundingly pathetic he uncrossed his legs and downed his glass's remaining components. What was he? A socially awkward, introverted, teenage girl that read gay fanfiction and blushed at the slightest intimation of gay activity in the non-fictional world? He thought _not_ , and made his way to the man.

"Hello, Sir." Sherlock greeted. The man was shorter up close, he noted in amusement.

The figure stiffened a bit in surprise and turned around to peer up at him.

"Ah, yes. Hello?" The man questioned.

"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure." He offered his hand with a small, inviting smile. "And you are?"

The man relaxed a bit, even as his eyes brightened from the company. "John Watson, the pleasure's all mine." He shook the offered hand and looked up, giving a smile of his own. Possibly a bit thankful as well. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sherlock released his hand and smiled closed-mouthed down at John. "A dance seems fitting." He suggested, pointedly observing the people around them.

The man- John, to his expectation, doesn't seem startled what so ever, and places his glass onto a passing waiters tray. Even going so far as to offer his hand with a small bow. If people are staring, which some are or they're too engrossed in their companion to care, he doesn't seem to notice.

Grasping the hand in his own, he lowers his other to John's waist. Feeling slightly smaller, warm calloused ones scrape across the sides of his black coat and rest on his own. As a new song comes on, this one appears to be more jaunty-La foule?-, he decides to ask. "May I ask what’s brought you here?"

He notices John glance up at him. His dark blue contrasting starkly from his dark-blond lashes, before he spins them around when a particularly mellifluous tune plays out. "No reason in particular, just thought I'd stop by." He replied with nonchalance, looking down in concentration. "Ah." _Footwork wasn't the best._ Sherlock mused.

"This is my favorite cabaret after all." John finished as he gripped Sherlock's hip a tad more tightly when Sherlock steered them to the right; then forward. "What about you?"

Sherlock then spun them around as the rising instrumental piece fluidly drowned out Piaf’s _“Épanouis, enivrés et heureux.”_ . Causing John to loose his footwork but he managed to catch himself-giving Sherlock the excuse to pull him closer. "Revenge." John muttered when he righted himself, tapping Sherlock's side in discipline before gripping it again. Sherlock grinned a little. He didn’t normally feel this at ease with other courters. They were all so tediously cliché and upfront. John could speak this secret yet well-known language. It was fun. "Quite. Although I suspect we're here for similar reasons." He tilted his head to the side slightly and observed John. "And what might those reasons be?" Countered John.

Sherlock sharply shrugged and twirled him around- pulling a winded and giggling John back into him. "Motifs raisonnables."

 

**11 minutes later.**

 

It wasn't until Ludwig Van Beethoven's 5th Symphony in C Minor came on and John's incessant bladder's urges that they decided to call it quits. When they reached the bar they were laughing, well, John mostly. "Who could possibly dance to that _here_ of all places?" He questioned in amusement and a bit of incredulity as he watched the crowd dissipate.

Sherlock shrugged. "I know a few, unfortunately." He muttered as he recalled an incident with a very excitable Molly Hooper, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin; observing the way John's eyes gleamed when the fluorescent lighting above hit them from an angle. John met his eyes serenely.

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

Sherlock stopped, he didn't know why but he began to feel...upset. He quickly shook the feeling off. One couldn’t tell of his internal struggle, he only blinked, so he needn’t worry. Why would he possibly be _upset_? He was merely catching a quick shag, as was John. They were only upholding false fronts in effort to attract one another and obtain what they wanted. The feeling increased for reasons he refused to look into, and so he ignored it.

"Any place you had in mind?"

John smirked and continued looking ahead. "Yes, yes I do actually."

 

**15 minutes later.**

 

"A rock." Sherlock spoke with raised eyebrows, glancing his way and nodded his head slowly in false impressment. "How quaint."

John turned his head to frown at him. "Yes, "A rock." if you want to put it dully. But it's a rock we're going to climb."

"Ah, yes. That's far better." Sherlock muttered and glanced at John boredly. "Do you have some type of strange fitness deviant or standard and you must test me to see if I qualify?"

John twitched and turned to him in shock. "What? No! Of course-Of course not!"

Sherlock leaned his head back to meet his shocked gaze. And, if only to add insult to injury, he licked his chapped lips and smirked at him. "Kinky."

John groaned, scrubbing his face with his hands, and looked up at the rock. "Jesus Christ." He muttered, his face taking on a rosy hue. "Whatever, you'll see why soon enough." He polled his eyes and looked to Sherlock again. An impish grin, red tinted cheeks, and ruffled hair, all courtesy of his little show of embarrassment. It was a nice look. Rolling his shoulders back John folded his coat sleeves up to reveal strong forearms.

And then he began climbing the rock with skill Sherlock didn't know he possessed in that short stature. Kevin was indubitably correct about his ass though, astonishing view.

"Coming?" John called down from the 12 foot high peak.

Sherlock was knocked out of his admiration-of-johns-ass stupor and looked up in disbelief. _When had he gotten up there?_   "You can't possibly expect me to-"

"You can either stay down there, and not get laid-" John called down the suggestion with his hand cupped around his mouth to create a makeshift megaphone. "-or join me!"

Sherlock frowned and squinted up at him, the nearby streetlight making it difficult to see him well. It would seem they'd had similar intentions for coming to Aux Trois Mailletz after all. Well, that solidified it. But he wasn't buying the innocent 'lets-climb-rocks-and-shag-no-this-isn't-sexual-standardization' act. Of course there was a catch. There’s always _something._

About to protest the shagging location, Sherlock narrowed his eyes on the now John-less rock peak. Then, he decided. He would not be out done by this midget.

 

**15 minutes, 1 damnation, 32 insults, and 13 derisive and concerned apologies later.**

 

"Did I pass?" Sherlock panted out as he collapsed beside John, were those tears in his eyes? “  Absolutely." John replied a tinge sarcastic and glanced in his direction. Leaning back onto his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Sherlock glowered, nearly at his wits end. Of course there was a catch. There’s always _something._ He was tired, sore, and really trying not to focus on the inevitable trip back down. He make John carry him back down this behemoth for all he cared. "What is it you so desperately wanted to show me?"

John merely nodded ahead and said nothing. Causing Sherlock to clench his teeth and look in the same direction.

The sky was now visible due to their elevated location. The view no longer hidden by any trees or constructions. London's sky was littered with stars, all proud and glittering starkly in contrast to the vast, dark and indigo splotched sky. Moonlight reflected off sleek glass business buildings. Rooms in tall office and apartment buildings were alight, creating an almost mechanical pattern with ones that weren't. Vaguely reminding him of an extremely banal game. Tetris was it?

The rock also seemed to be perched above a body of water, telling from the large abutment to their right. Winds rippled the waters surface. The recycled light bending to the smooth surface’s ever flow and swish. The soft sound of waves hit the shore, tree’s leaves rustled faintly, easily heard from their close proximity to their treetops. He took a deep breath, allowing the fresh, dewy aroma to invade his senses. He shivered pleasantly when a bracing breeze rushed by, tousling his curls and icy winds whistling past his ears. _This was new._

"Tell me, John. Do you enjoy romantic comedies?" And so startlingly cliché by norm. He found he quite liked it.

John, now sitting cross-legged beside in favor of his previous position, scooted closer to lean against his shoulder. "…Yes. On occasion.."

"Thought so." A small smile unknowingly curved his features. Sherlock moved to lean into his companion, feeling far more comfortable than he saw fit to analyze at the moment. It was like a drug. A relaxing one at that. Which may have been contradicting, telling from his detestation of marijuana, but this was far more different. Unlike the sluggish unawareness and muted fear cannabis brought forth. He was hyperaware of every shift closer, every shiver, and every breath-it wasn’t a sexual hyperawareness, but a companionship. There was also the knowledge that John held no ill-intention.

 

**2 minutes later.**

 

Sherlock lowered John onto the, thankfully smooth, cool stone below them. Placing his hands on John's waist and behind his neck, he proceeded to 'try and snog his brains out'. But John was making things a bit difficult by laughing into his mouth whenever his hands brushed a sensitive spot. "Strp leghing, Jehn." It didn't work.

Deciding he'd had enough, he lowered his head to work at John's neck. "Ah, could you-could you not-don't make them visible please." John choked out a bit as Sherlock continued. "Waer mafkup." John groaned and rolled them over so he was on top. "No. Makeup is for girls."

An unimpressed eye-bat. "You wear _hairspray_."

John's lips twitched, he bent down to kiss him. Keeping his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock retaliated by raising his hand up to cup the back of John's head and scraped his fingers across John's scalp lightly, enjoying the shiver he received. He deepened the kiss a bit more and brushed his tongue along the roof of John's mouth.

And then John bit him.

Whimpering mostly in surprise rather than pain; he pulled back, although it was pretty painful it was nothing he hadn't dealt with before-but John seemed like he would be...gentle. "You bit me." he stated needlessly as he checked his mouth for blood. John's face quickly went concerned. "Blimey, are you alright? I didn't mean it, I swear! I was- you! Never mind, are you alright?" He crouched back on his heels and rested a hand on one of Sherlock's thighs that were resting on his own, squeezing it in concern.

 Sherlock; still panting and flushed assured him. "No. No it's fine. Tell me why you bit me." He said as he pulled a worried and apologetic John back over him by his tie. John frowned at him then looked at a spot beside his head. "No reason, just a bit....ticklish." The last part was made purposefully difficult to decipher.

"Pardon?" 

John frowned at him, the nearby lamplight making his blush visible. "Ticklish. I said I was ticklish. Happy?"

“Is this usually a problem with most of your one-night-stands?” For a split second, John seemed a tad uncomfortable. Which was ridiculous. What else could this have been?

A pause. “No, actually. Just…you. Huh. Well- there was someone- but yeah just you.” John, looking every bit a pitiful mixture of shame and sadness for a moment, looked down once more. At least he wasn’t offended when Sherlock addressed his less-than-seemly habit.

Sherlock scrutinized his features for a moment. Every sad little eye-crinkle, nervous shift of his eyebrows and tightness of his lips. _Oh_. Suddenly realizing where this was going, Sherlock rushed to fix it before he was left stuck on a rock with a bruised cheek. Watching his crestfallen monkey swing away forever. He needed a way down _damn it._

So he hummed contemplatively. “Interesting.”

Digging his fingers into John’s sides, he watched in satisfaction as John’s eyes practically bulged when he let out an unfairly attractive guffaw. Collapsing on top of him in a mess of near-maniacal cackles, weakly pawing at Sherlock’s hands to stop them from their merciless tickling.

Sherlock continued, feigning oblivion. The weight on his chest made for a good blanket after all. Oh, but what a spectacle they must have made. Two grown men tickling each other on a pinnacle of queer.

“Extraordinary, John.”

 

**3 minutes and a few snorts later.**

 

"So, no sex?" John asked when they broke apart to breath properly. Sherlock wasn't exactly surprised to find that he didn't mind just kissing, sure he was rock hard but John was a good kisser. He wouldn't mind kissing John for a while more if he could. He was a very...unpredictable kisser. He cleared his throat at the thought and answered.

"I'm not exactly fond of shagging on a freezing rock in 40 degree weather." He exhaled for emphasis; the breath becoming visible and wafting through the air. "So sorry to disappoint." He finished remorselessly.

John laughed and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Yeah, I suppose that one's my fault." He took a deep breath and turned to their right when Sherlock gave him an 'incontrovertibly,-you-fool' expression. John's hair and clothing rustled when an especially stronger gust blew past. John's face took on a tranquil expression; making him seem younger, at peace,...innocent as if he weren't straddling a mans lap on a rock.

Sherlock regarded him through half-lidded eyes. Something about John's appearance calmed him as well, made him feel...lighter? No, heavier with something. Something. Something was.. John turned back to him with a smirk.

"So, yes kissing?"

"Must you say it in such a manner? Is this highschool?"

John shrugged and twisted his lips in false resignation. "Must've been the romantic comedies."

"Juvenile." Sherlock hissed, although it must have been difficult to take it to heart when his lips kept tugging at the corners like that.

“Oh, excuse me. Shall I use more articulate synonyms?” Sherlock shook his head briskly.

“How about osculate? Smooch? Oh, canoodle, I like canoodle. Hey, would you like to canoo-mmph!"


End file.
